I raised my hand in a hushing gesture. “Listen.”
Charlie’s voice was a seeping wound. He was close to the breaking point, but he was also a professional. He didn’t falter. “You give them land,
Their own earth under their feet,
And still they take to the roads. “And water: dig them the deepest well,
Still it’s not deep enough
To drink the moon from.
“This show is about them… the ones who, even after you’ve dug them the deepest well, say it’s not deep enough, because it doesn’t let them drink the moon…”
Howard glared at me. “Well?”
“It’s called ‘Adam’s Complaint.’ Denise Levertov wrote it. Charlie uses poetry on his show all the time.”
“Maybe to you it’s just poetry. But to a cop it’s going to sound like a confession. In cases like this, the boyfriend’s always a suspect.” Howard picked up my cellphone. “Charlie needs a lawyer.”
“You’re a lawyer,” I said.
Howard replaced the phone in the well between our seats. “Do you think he’d let me act for him?”
“Why not?” I said. “You’re the best, and you’ll come cheap.”
CVOX was a concrete and glass box surrounded by larger concrete and glass boxes that sold such commodities as discounted designer fashions, end-of-the-roll carpeting, and furniture that could dazzle your friends for a year before you had to cough up a single dime. The station was indistinguishable from its neighbours, except for the oversized call letters on its roof. The “ O ” in CVOX was an open, red-lipped mouth with a lascivious Mick Jagger tongue. Spectacular as the sign was, Howard didn’t even give it a passing glance. He leaped out of the car before I came to a full stop.
I walked through the double glass doors at the front of the building just as the Queen of the Coneheads was running to block Howard’s entrance to the corridor that presumably led to the radio studios. Howard was a big man, six-foot-three and powerfully built, but he was no match for this tiny young woman with three-inch platform shoes and attitude as spiky as her hair.
“No way,” she said. “Nobody goes in there unless I say they go in there.”
Howard gazed at me beseechingly. He had never found it easy dealing with women.
I walked over and stepped between them. The young woman gave me a quick up and down, decided I was harmless, and relaxed. “This is Charlie Dowhanuik’s father,” I said. She stared at me uncomprehendingly. I corrected myself. “Charlie D’s father,” I said.
She nodded sagely. “Right.”
“There’s been a death,” I said. “In the family.”
Her small features rearranged themselves into an expression of sympathy. “Bummer,” she said. She looked up into Howard’s face. “Just give me a second, Mr. D, then I can take you down to the studio.” She went back to her desk, called for a back-up gatekeeper, then came over to Howard and took him gently by the arm. “This way,” she said. “Incidentally, I’m Esme.”
When we were almost at the end of the hall, Esme steered us to the right, down a short corridor, and into a control room. We stood awkwardly while she whispered something to a woman in a black turtleneck, who turned from the array of equipment in front of her, glanced our way, then swivelled her chair to face the glass that separated the control room from the studio. Through the glass I could see Charlie. I had known his mother well, and Charlie was unmistakably her son: black hair, sleepy hazel eyes, aquiline nose, generous mouth. But unlike her son, Marnie Dowhanuik’s beauty had been without flaw.
When the woman in the black turtleneck murmured into her microphone, Charlie looked up. He was wearing headphones. She turned to Howard. “You can talk to him now. I’ll go to a commercial. Tell him I’m bringing somebody in to finish the show.”
In seconds, Howard appeared in Charlie’s studio. He sat down in the chair next to his son’s, leaned over, swung one of his massive arms around Charlie’s slender shoulders and put his mouth to Charlie’s ear. For a beat, Charlie listened, then his face crumpled. He had adjusted his headphones so he could hear his father; now he ripped them off and covered his face with his hands.
Viewed through glass, the silent tableau of discovery and grief had the surreal intensity of life inside an aquarium. Instinctively, both the woman in the turtleneck and I looked away. She picked up the phone and summoned someone named Troy to Studio D, then turned to me. “I’m Kendra Gaede,” she said. “You’re welcome to stay here till they decide how they want to handle this.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’d like to be here in case Howard needs me.”
He didn’t. In a beat, Charlie picked up his headphones and slipped them back on.
“Troy’s going to finish for you,” Kendra said.
Charlie nodded, then punched a button in front of him. We could hear his voice. “I have to explain why Troy’s taking over. Otherwise, the switchboard will be jammed.”
“Are you sure you can get through it?” Kendra asked. “Troy can come up with something.”
Charlie raised his hand, palm towards us. “The people who listen to this show trust me. I have to be honest with them.” Charlie picked up his headphones, and began speaking. “Over seven hundred years ago, a beautiful woman named Francesca da Rimini told Dante a great truth: ‘There is nothing more painful than to remember happy days in times of sorrow.’ ” The smooth professionalism of his voice shattered against the hard edge of grief, but he soldiered on. “Francesca was one of the damned. I’ve just discovered that I am, too. The topic for the rest of the show is loss. So if you’re lost, today’s your day. Troy Prigotzke will be taking over for the rest of the show. Till the next time, this is Charlie D. Be strong. Nothing lasts forever.”
His words were brave, but as soon as Troy Prigotzke entered the booth, Charlie slumped. Gentle as a mother Troy took the headphones from Charlie’s head and placed them on his own. “Time to go, Buddy,” Troy said, and Charlie stood and walked out of the booth; Howard was right behind him.
As Charlie crossed in front of me, I put my hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry,” I said. I turned to Howard. “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”
Howard shook his head. “Charlie’s probably better without too many people around right now. When he decides what he wants to do, we can cab it. I’ll call you tonight.”
“Do that,” I said.
After Charlie and Howard disappeared down the hall that led to the CVOX offices, Esme touched me on the shoulder. “I’ll walk you back to reception,” she said.
The walls on either side of us were hung with oversized publicity photographs of the on-air personalities of CVOX. The pictures were brightly banal and I passed them without a second glance. But I slowed at Charlie’s portrait. He had presented his best profile to the camera, but the lighting was dim and, in a gesture heartbreakingly instinctive and familiar, his right hand was raised to shield his blood-scarred hidden face.
In that instant, I gleaned something of what it was like for Charlie to live in a world full of mirrors and cameras and eyes, and my mind recoiled from this insight into his perpetual suffering. When we reached the main desk, Esme’s words wrenched me back to reality.
“I didn’t know it was her. I thought when you said there was a death in the family it was like an old uncle or something.” She ran a hand through her spiky burgundy hair. “Ariel wasn’t much older than me.”
“Too young,” I said.
She bobbed her head in affirmation. “Way, way too young.”
I started towards the door. Esme called after me. “Wait.” She walked over to a cupboard behind the desk, took out a shiny black coffee mug and handed it to me. The logo on it was silver except for the wetly red Mick Jagger mouth that hinted at appetites too hip and too dark for talk radio. Cool on cool.
I froze. Esme smacked the palm of her hand against her forehead. “Totally inappropriate, right?” she said. “It’s just that I always give these to guests. I’m such a space case.”
“Nobody knows what to do in a situation like this,” I said. “Giving a person a mug makes as much sense as anything else.”
On my way home, I turned on the radio and punched in CBC Radio Two. As I drove across the Albert Street Bridge, the graceful precision of Prokofiev’s “Classical” Symphony soothed me. I took a deep breath. With Prokofiev and luck, I might just make it through dinner.
Luck was not on my side. Our new puppy was waiting for me inside the door. He was an eight-week-old
